


The Rule of Three

by lciel



Series: The Seed that Burst into Flame [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Betrayal, Casual Sex, Complicated Relationships, Conspiracy, Curses, Gen, Godlings, M/M, Politics, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Post-Hearts of Stone (The Witcher 3 DLC), Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-09 21:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14723916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lciel/pseuds/lciel
Summary: 2nd Act, following "The Return of the Swallow". Geralt and Ciri have progressed in solving the problems encountered upon their return to the continent, but new challenges and unforeseen events have emerged. And in-between those troubles, secrets of the past and old acquaintances make their way back to the front stage.





	1. The Empress

_Nilfgaard of Golden Towers, in the year 1270 of the reign of Ker'zaer Emhyr var Emreis_

 

Cirilla var Emreis, Queen of Nilfgaard and Cintra, Princess of Brugge, Duchess of Sodden, Heir of Skellige, and Sovereign of Attre and Abb Yarra, stood perfectly still as she observed her husband receive the last petitioners of the day from the highest gallery that encircled the great ballroom. Her gaze travelled over the gravestones that made up the floor, entombing the men and women who had stood in his way to power, who had betrayed his father, King Fergus var Emreis, and him. She remembered the initial horror of dancing with him upon these stones on her wedding day, imagining their angry spirits rising to dance to the music played. Now the hall seemed eerily quiet. For months, no bards had been received, no laughter had rang, no step been danced. The Empress lived silently in the lavish wing of the palace dedicated to her, while the Emperor worked relentlessly, negotiating the alliances of the Nilfgaardian nobles to garner support for the conquest of the north. He reassembled the military, shaken apart after the defeat of Brenna. He built roads made of stone along the banks of the Yaruga to improve the supply network for the next war.  He schemed against sorcerers and kings. Even on the day they were wed, so it seemed to her, her husband had been away on the battlefield in his mind. In the early days, he had sought her out most dutifully, called her ‘Becca’ sweetly in privacy. Then she had not wanted to see it. But his embrace was hesitant, his touch perfunctory. Their hastened joining never bore fruit. When she had denied it no more, and gently moved his hand away from her shoulder, he had withdrawn without a word. The silence of their marriage stung as deeply as scorn, and Cirilla had accepted the lack of companionship, the barrenness of their bed, with stoicism. She blamed herself – until she learned of an ambitious young emissary, Peter Evertsen, who had once arrived at court without rank or prospect. A few weeks in Emhyr’s bed had made him a royal scribe, a role that steadily gained in status and privileges. It was said he had ambitions to become chamberlain, a position usually reserved for the highest noblemen.

Looking at the last petitioner bowing and retreating from the Emperor, she saw the rigid curve of her husband’s shoulders as he got up from the throne, the furtive glances of his guards who cleared the way through the crowd, the courtiers whispering behind fans as the White Flame was passing.  A letter in his handwriting, neatly folded in her pocket, urged her to find his private office. Disengaging herself from the court ladies in the gallery, she descended the steps towards the main corridor linking the public part of the palace with the private wings that lay beyond. When she entered his chambers, the accursed scribe scrambled up from an armchair and bowed to her with some surprise: “My lady, how may I be of service?” She tutted at him, and swept into her husband’s bed chamber. In its austerity, it had changed little in the last year. She approached the concealed doorway that led to his private study, to where he habitually retreated in the evening. The scribe coughed behind her. She ignored it and pulled at the lever, only to find the passage locked. She turned to him, and he bowed to her with apology and hastened with the keys. The doors had three _mechanical_ locks. While he was busy she stepped over to the dresser. Emhyr’s ivory brush laid carefully plucked free of any dark hair. Any item was perfectly clean, never a piece of him to get a hold of. The scribe had meanwhile unlocked the doors for her and held them open. In passing she noted his calculating mien.

The last time she had been here, and it must have been months ago, the room had been furnished in dark wooden shelves and chests of drawers that lined two facing walls. Opposite of the door, a latticed window overlooked a small interior courtyard of the palace from a dizzying height. There was no fireplace inside this room, nor any other entrance. Not even the hidden passages that connected most of the Emperor’s chambers and led to a range of escape tunnels gave access to this room. The furniture had remained the same over the time, down to the neatly organised desk facing the window. The only items she had never laid eyes on before were two paintings hanging on the wall framing the doorway: Immediately she recognised the child likeness with the horrible scowl and pink dress, the only extant picture of her childhood self. Going by the painter’s signature, this was the original rendition. The Empress stepped closer to scrutinise the second canvas. She recognised the brush stroke of Ruiz Dorrit. Both paintings were unmistakably done by the same artist. She had never seen this painting before. It showed two men in a lush forest scene: one in armour, extending his hand in luminous blessing, the other, half-naked and half-monstrous, on his knees in worship. She stepped closer to read the encryption on the frame: _The Urcheon’s Salvation: Prince Duny and Ravix of Fourhorn, 1252_. The whitehaired knight seemed surprisingly young. Artistic licence? Fixing her eyes on the kneeling man’s face, she furrowed her brow in creeping recognition of facial features she encountered every day.

“So you have found your way here”, Emhyr said from behind her. She had not heard him approach. Briefly she realised that Evertsen must have alerted him. He stepped beside her, gazing at the face in the painting that was so similar to his own. “H-how?” she asked, and he told her the truth. He told her about the curse that transformed him into the monster, and the witcher’s help in gaining Pavetta’s hand in marriage to break the curse. He told her about his daughter, the real Cirilla, and the lie that was her own existence. When she asked him in disgust and despair to leave the same night, he had already readied a small company of her closest servants and guards. The scribe gazed at her steadily when she left the private study. Briefly she wondered if he had convinced Emhyr to get rid of her. In his formal study, from where she would depart through the secret tunnels, she kissed the Emperor goodbye. She twisted her hands into his soft hair, and felt him kiss her back softly. His lips closed to hers eventually and he remained motionless. Then she knew there was nothing more to come. When she pulled away, he simply returned to his map table. With his back to her, did not say a word. He did not even react when she whispered farewell.

As she boarded the ship at Baccalà, the queen was determined to step out of the shadow of Cirilla var Emreis, to make a life of her own. Fiddling with a small glass vial in her pocket, she was briefly surprised to see Fringilla Vigo’s hooded face. A flash of blue light later, though, she never remembered her choking desire to make him feel her pain, make her husband suffer for his cold heart that loved nothing but his eternal war; for his foolish lover who would yet learn the same harsh lesson. Her wish for vengeance had been taken from her, and when Becca stepped ashore at the port of Cintra to be collected by the sisters of Melitele, her pockets were as empty as her mind.

~*~

_1285_

 

In a beautiful house in Lan Exeter, an injured woman awoke with a pained gasp. Her skin was on fire where knives and whips had cut into her flesh, and her head hurt as her belly from nourishment withheld for days. The left half of her face was covered in something cool. Somebody spoke melodiously, and a cold cloth touched her forehead. A hand gently lifted her head, and a cup was pressed against her lips. She sipped greedily, and the voice tutted, withdrawing the cup. “Easy”, the voice said, “easy now.” The voice came from far away, as she slowly descended back into unconsciousness.

A woman who could have passed as her sister stared at her with curiosity. She wrung out the wet cloth, wiped the right half her face again, and leaned back in her chair by the bed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Cirilla “Becca” var Emreis is a character in the books only, also called the “false Cirilla”, who is brought to Emhyr during his search for the real Ciri. The game Witcher 3 does not deal with her fate at all, so I am here trying to fix that. Despite recognising the deception, Emhyr pretends that Becca is the long-lost Princess of Cintra and marries her as part of the peace treaty ending the second war between Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms. I consider Emhyr’s decision to marry the false Cirilla a political one, rather than a continuation of his creepy earlier plan to marry his daughter.
> 
> In The Lady of the Lake (last book), Emhyr reveals his plan to Geralt to sire a son with Ciri, who will conquer the worlds and prevent the white frost, according to Ithlinne’s prophecy. Geralt calls him a monster, to which Emhyr suggests that Cirilla will never learn that he is her father. As any arranged marriage, he expects theirs to remain loveless, but promises to treat her well. He justifies the plan with the need to prevent the White Frost. The sorcerer Vilgefortz helps him in that quest, but is later revealed to betray Emhyr, wanting to experiment on Ciri to steal her powers. At the end of the the book, Emhyr finds Ciri, with Geralt unable to stop him. But the Emperor changes his mind, hugs her and lets Ciri go, after she starts crying when he tries to leave with her.  I consider that decision to be pivotal for Emhyr’s development as a person, and it will matter in the background of this story.
> 
> In the same passage of the book, Emhyr also justifies his decisions to Geralt, suggesting that he did not intend to kill Pavetta, even though he did not love her. Her death is to some extent an accident, which he nevertheless provoked and feels terrible about. Emhyr not killing Becca, even though she is a threat to him, is modelled on that idea and history.
> 
> If you are unfamiliar with the books, it might make sense to read the summaries in the witcher wiki online.
> 
> Evertsen is a canon character, described sometimes as the architect behind Emhyr’s power, and his right hand man. I am … extending his role a little here.
> 
> Lastly, Becca is surprised to see Fringilla, because the sorceress is imprisoned by Emhyr. I am suggesting throughout this story that he lets her out for certain missions, because she is more useful to him alive than dead. That also explains why she is still alive in Witcher 3. But there are limits to her freedom…


	2. Old Haunts

_The Free City of Novigrad, 12 th Velen in the year 1285 under the blessed guidance of Hierarch Hemmelfart (or rather the diligent administration of Governor var Attre)_

Roach the Umpteenth trotted through the Gate of the Hierarch, unfazed by the grim-looking temple guard. Geralt had not set foot into the city much in the last decade, and the crowdedness of the streets struck him. Where once thousands of refugees from Velen had congested the streets and alleys, now elves could be seen on every corner. Many of them looked just as poor, emaciated, and bedraggled as the refugees of war. It was already late, and he had ridden all day to cross the distance between the Nilfgaardian camp and the city. Not only Roach was exhausted from the journey. He had gotten the horse from Roche; it had belonged to one of the men who had died in the bog. It was a sturdy brown mare; not as fast as the purebred Nilfgaardian Emhyr had given to him back then, but decent. The black Roach was still alive, but he had to leave him behind when Ciri and he had left this world for the first time. Barnabas Basilius was taking good care of him, though, last he had seen them during the winter in Toussaint.

In the cold air of the night, Geralt left the new Roach at the trough behind the Chameleon. Music could still be heard from the inn, as the witcher took his gear from the horse and went inside. At the counter, the barmaid found a stable hand to take care of Roach, and provided Geralt with a much needed beer. Dandelion was nowhere in sight, but his painting still hung on the wall.

“If my auld eyes ain’t foolin’ me, Geralt of Rivia!” a fond brogue said below him. He turned around in the packed taproom and looked down, finding the big smile of Zoltan Chivay. The dwarf squeezed him heartily round the hips. “How’re you doing, wolf? I haven’t seen ye in ages, and mind ye, if I were your mistress, I’d tell you something, you faithless friend.”

“Zoltan”, Geralt laughed, and patted his shoulders. The dwarf let him go.

“What brings you to Novigrad? Has a girl given you the slip? I’ll tell you right now, if it’s a sorceress-”

“It’s not a sorceress”, Geralt held up his hands, “It’s a contract. I’m looking for someone who lived in Novigrad when I was last here, but I’m not sure she is still around.”

“Huh?” Zoltan looked at him. “Who?”

That was about the last bit of the evening Geralt remembered clearly when we woke up the next morning, in bed with a snoring dwarf, and luckily still fully clothed. Zoltan’s snore did not even hitch when Geralt peeled himself out of the covers and stumbled over an empty bottle of lemon vodka. He found his swords and gear near the counter in the main taproom, covered his tab, and left Roach for the moment.

Corinne Tilly apparently still lived in Rudolf de Jonkheer’s haunted house. The oneiromancer opened the door, frowning when she saw him.

“Geralt”, she invited him in, “I did expect someone, but not you.”

“Who did you expect?” he asked her, sitting in the downstairs room she had renovated to be quite cosy.

“I’m not sure”, she admitted, serving them tea. “What brings you here?”

“I need advice from someone who knows a lot about dreams”, he offered, taking note of the room and then Corinne herself. She had not aged well, looking puffy and tired. Something seemed to worry her. She kept fiddling with a tassel on her skirt.

“What kind of dream?” she asked, taking a sip from her tea.

“The cursed nightmare kind”, he replied darkly. She almost dropped her cup.

“Tell me more about it?” she asked while reaching for a cloth to wipe up the tea she spilled. Her hands were still slightly shaky.

“I have taken a contract to break a curse,” the witcher began, “the victim of which is suffering from terrible nightmares about their past. At first I thought it might be Nemesis’ lullaby, and the curse most likely involved the hair of the victim. However, there were extra effects that cannot be accounted for: sleepwalking, and an inability to wake up.” He peered at her face carefully over the rim of his cup, taking a sip. “Now, this could be the combination of different pieces of magic, but I have also seen a very similar case in this very house, a few years ago.”

Corinne shuddered, smiling faintly: “That animate furniture was vile, and I think I got hunted by a giant chicken.” Then she sobered up. “There is something you need to know.” And she looked around nervously, before leaning in: “Somebody came to me, asking questions not dissimilar to yours. I did not suspect anything amiss at first, but then she got very keen on talking about possibilities of dreams having effects beyond the dreams themselves. I suspected something was off, but-” she stopped.

“But what?” he pushed.

“She threatened me, and then Sara got upset”, Corinne whispered.

“The godling you live with?” the witcher clarified. He remembered the little blue-skinned person telling him how much she loved nightmares: especially the really scary ones. Effortlessly the godling had kept the oneiromancer trapped in a nightmare.

Corinne nodded worriedly: “She disappeared just after that woman came by. I think Sara was afraid of her. Usually Sara would stay in touch by sending me a dream, though I have not heard from her at all.”

“How does she do that?” the witcher wondered, surprised. Was it a common ability among godlings? He had not heard of such dream sending before, although he had learned that Corinne could even call up the dreams of the dead. Back in the day, she had helped Avallac’h convince Ge’els to betray Eredin by dreaming the death of the king of the Aen Elle.

“Oh”, Corinne hesitated, surprised, “Sara keeps a hair from me, that is enough. It is a natural ability of her kind, and Sara is rather talented in its use, even over distances.”

Damn it. So his instinct had been right, and there was a good chance the godling was involved with this business. The footprints in the cellar of the mill might even have been hers. He wondered how the eccentric being could have become involved in politics.

“Who was the woman, the one that threatened you?” he asked, hoping the answer might shed some light about who was behind the curse, or rather, the godling’s magic.

“She was Nilfgaardian”, Corinne remembered, “going by the accent. Black hair, regal attitude, well-versed in magical treatises – she said her name was Delores, but I think she lied”, the oneiromancer offered, “Do you recognise her?”

He nodded mutely: “Maybe, I have an idea. Can you break the magic Sara can put on somebody else, when she has their hair?” he asked.

Corinne bit her lip awkwardly, weighing her head back and forth: “It depends. We have worked together for a while, and I know that Sara needs to concentrate to give someone a dream. Unlike me, she can control the flow of the dream, can walk around in them like a visitor and change things. I cannot break the magic, at least I don’t think that is possible within my means, but …” she pondered, “If I can enter the dream of the dreamer the usual way, I should be able to talk to Sara. The problem is that I can’t reach her, which means that both Sara and the person she is sending nightmares are under a magical shield.”

“I see. If I could get you to the dreamer, would that help?” Geralt pondered.

Corinne nodded: “I’ll need some time to pack my supplies, but I will help. A bit of a change of scenery would do me good.”

~*~

_Somewhere, unknown, dark:_

It was locked away in a dark place. When it moved, the heavy collar around its neck scratched against its spikes. Some had broken off when it had thrown itself against the chain earlier, tearing at the fur and skin until bloodied. Now it was just curled up in the foul straw, piled in the corner least wet. It shivered, cold and alone and hurt. From beyond the cast iron bars of the cell, screams and whimpers could be heard at odd intervals. Voices mumbled, questioning, angry voices. A woman’s terrified shrieks echoed off the stones, sounds of ripping fabrics, howls and bellowing. It covered its sensitive ears with misshapen paws and wailed, wailed faintly in its inescapable bonds.

A blue-skinned, child-sized person was staring at it with dark fascination. Why did it wail? All the large mean man with the whip wanted was the ring. He kept asking the man, and the girl, and the woman, and sometimes the spiky monster, too. But instead of giving the ring away, the monster swallowed and swallowed it again, every time it came back out. And everyone kept screaming. It was glorious!

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oneiromancer: dream seer, she is in the Witcher 3 game.


	3. The Godling's Lament

_Lan Exeter, Kovir, 12 th Velen 1285 in the reign of King Tankred_

Yen had come, worried and fussing, and Ciri had borne it with patience. Then the sorceresses had taken some time to catch up, united in spirit after Geralt had committed himself to neither of them. Ciri, feeling awkward, had contemplated informing her mother of the unplanned run-in with General Voorhis, but some gut feeling kept her back. She told herself it was not pride. Excusing herself to catch up with Geralt, she teleported to the Chameleon, where they had agreed to meet after she had left him behind near the camp in Velen. She said good-bye to Triss and Yen, who planned to return to Nilfgaard later that week, passing by Dol Blathanna to pay an overdue visit to Fringilla Vigo, who had taken up the hospitality of Francesca Findabair, the elven queen.

Arriving in a back alley behind the inn, Ciri was greeted by the squeal of a young boy, wagging a wooden sword and losing his oversized pink cap as she picked him up to swirl him around. Priscilla was smiling at them from the doorway, and Dandelion appeared soon after, when she entered the taproom. Geralt was nowhere to be seen, so she sat down for a meal with the family. Zoltan, honorary uncle and godfather, ate with them as well. During the meal the conversation turned to the general state of affairs, and she learned that lots of nonhuman refugees were currently passing through Novigrad. Racial upheavals, unfortunately, were nothing new in the Northern Kingdoms, but they had quieted down since the war, or so she thought. But in the last months, as Dandelion solemnly told her, horrible news came from the eastern regions. Things had remained relatively calm in Redania and Temeria, not in the least due to the influence Philippa Eilhard exerted through her position in Queen Adda’s court, and the moderate position the young queen Anaïs of Temeria upheld. Novigrad itself, after the thorough disempowerment of the Hierarch, remained a haven in times of peril. But as the streets grew more and more crowded, Governor var Attre had started to limit access to the town.

“It’s like this, lass”, Zoltan told her, looking grim over his ale, “Aedirn is the worst. It’s had no proper king since Demawend was killed, and when most of the black army left, all kinds of people took over the country, doing as they pleased. Now the second summer was rainy in a row and the crop failed. The stores are empty, peasants are starving. The governor is corrupt, the Nilfgaardian and local aristocrats, useless dolts, are entrenched in their quarrels over land. The old story: Lormark – is it Kaedwen, or is it Aedirn? Who gets the Pontar valley? Since they split up the country, there are so many toll points now the price of imported grain has gone through the ceiling. Hunger everywhere, it’s like back in the war. And in-between you have bandits, witch hunters, and the bloody Order of the Flaming Rose taking up arms against nonhumans and mages, because of course it’s their fault the crop failed. The knights have acquired a new citadel somewhere near Aldersberg. In response, the Scoia’tel are back in the trees to turn passing knights into pincushions.” The old dwarf shook his head. “If my bones weren’t as tired as they are, I’d be right back, helping the people get out. But now I’m doing what I can from here.”

“Zoltan has a deal with Vivaldi, they are shipping nonhumans south, for a fee of course, since it’s Vivaldi”, Dandelion added. Zoltan spat.

“But where are they going?” Ciri wondered.

“Most ships go to Cintra and Nazair, it’s the first safe place down the coast. But the people there are starting to complain as well. What are hundreds, thousands of people supposed to do, looking for better lives? Where should they all live, work?” Priscilla sighed.

“The solution needs to be in the North” Dandelion said forcefully. Then nobody spoke.

Eventually, they changed the topic, and Ciri told the others about her adventures on Skellige. She was just finishing the tale how Hjalmar had lost a horse race against his sister, because his beard had gotten tangled in a tree as he tried to overtake her by cutting a corner going through a copse of wood, when Geralt stormed into the taproom. He seemed in quite a hurry, and gave her a meaningful look towards the door. So she said her farewells to their friends, promising to return soon. From the same back alley in which she had arrived, she teleported Geralt and herself back to Crookback Bog, as per his request.

~*~

_On a marshy patch of bog, feet pleasantly muddy, on a slightly sunny day:_

Johnny the godling perused the purple sheen of the drowner guts that were rotting away in the grass. A lot of guts had been left lying about and rotting by the gaggle of men who had come to kill the weavess. Her corpse smelled worse than a zeugl, and even the beetles that ate the drowner guts did not touch the crone’s remains. In fact, while life was seeping back into the bog at a wonderful chaotic pace, the mill was silent as a grave. Once grandma and the children had filled the place with laughter and shouting, but then there had been just the last crone, evil and angry. Johnny had not dared to go close, why would he? But then somebody had sung a song, oh what a beautiful song. He had seen her once, small and blue, with flowers in her hair, staring sullenly into a puddle. They had even talked. But two witches had interrupted everything, a blonde one and a dark-haired one, bursting into the clearing to negotiate with the crone. One of them had spied Johnny, and sent a bolt of nasty magic after him. He had not seen Sara outside afterwards, but sometimes he had heard her singing inside the mill.

And then, more humans had appeared, stomping through the bog waking everyone up. Hiding inside the den, frightened but curious, Johnny had decided to dream what happened on the clearing instead: The drowners had gotten many of the men. But there had also been a fiery-haired sorceress, and an ash-blonde warrior, who had killed the crone and helped the men get back to their dry land. They had left, and then – then beautiful Sara had climbed out of the thatched roof she had hidden in, cursing and afraid. She had run away into the bog for a bit, hiding with Johnny, but then she had gone back to fetch something important, something she had hidden. Johnny had followed her, unwilling to part with her company, but then the witches had suddenly reappeared in the clearing and dragged Sara away. It was like licking snails through a cloth!

“Galactoid, galeanthrophic, gelastic Geralt of retromorphosing, rhypophagyic, ruderary Rivia!” he called, when two days after all the tumult the witcher yet again appeared in the clearing, together with the ash-blonde woman.

“Hello Johnny, it’s wonderful to see you”, the witcher greeted him, and Johnny bowed elegantly.

“Hello”, the blonde said with mischievous eyes.

“You killed the weavess?” Johnny questioned, and the blonde nodded.

“Yes, she stole something from me, something important. Now I’ve got it back. Is Sara around?” she asked. Johnny huffed, and shook his head in irritation.

 “Do you know where she went? It’s really important, you know?” the ash-blonde said, “I want to help somebody who has terrible dreams, and we think Sara gave them to him. We just want to talk to her.”

Sara liked terrible dreams. So did Johnny, although he preferred the endless sensation of falling to the giant chicken chasing them. Sara and he had dreamed together once, and he was rather giddy to do so again.

“She was taken, lo and behold, and the bog is empty without her, like a shell without slug” Johnny lamented with gravitas.

“Who took her?” the witcher knelt before Johnny, looking serious.

“Infected be the air whereon they ride, and damned all those that trust them!” Johnny shrieked, holding his heart, and swaying back and forth, and dropping himself into the witcher’s arms.

“Witches!” the ash-blonde exclaimed, “That is in one of Dandelion’s ballads.”

“What kind of witches, can you describe them?” the witcher, poor in imagination and sense for poetry, asked most bluntly. But the godling was gracious even to a philistine:

“One fair, one dark, as sun and night,   
and beggars for a crone’s old might;   
they pled their case, a bargain made,   
to fell a king, and let him fade.   
  
Into his dreams sweet Sara flings   
the king, a puppet on their strings;  
At day and night, they make him feel  
the pain he caused – that is the deal!  
  
Then warrior and sorceress  
kill the crone and make a mess.  
The godling flees the scene for naught:  
when fair and dark come back she’s caught!”

“Where do you know all this from?” the ash-blonde inquired, fixing Johnny with her big green eyes. He told her about his talk with Sara; sitting by the puddles in the rain. His heart grew heavy from all the words he found on his tongue to express his loneliness. When the two stubborn witchers had squeezed all the words out of him, he made his excuses and retired to his den. Maybe he could dream of Sara, and she would notice.

~*~

_Novigrad, later that day:_

“Well”, Ciri said, “we did learn something.” Geralt looked at her from below the arm that covered his face to block out the sunlight falling on the bed. Back at the Chameleon, Priscilla had managed to give them a room for a few hours to freshen up and relax. With the town as crowded as it was, the inn was fully booked.

“Where will you go now?” she asked the witcher, and he huffed.

“Back to Nilfgaard, and I will take Corinne with me. Perhaps she can help Emhyr, or get in contact with Sara somehow through the dream. In any case, it’s worth a shot.”

All their other leads were dead or unconscious. Triss had redone the triangulation early in the morning, before Ciri had left. No magical signature had shown up. Wherever the fair and dark witches had taken Sara, the place was shielded from magic. Somehow, Geralt had a bad feeling about this. Witches meant sorceresses, and if sorceresses were plotting to kill an Emperor, usually the Lodge was involved. Not that many members had survived the wars, but apart from Triss and Yen, Philippa, Francesca, Keira, Ida, Fringilla, and Marietta remained. Three of them fair, three dark-haired, two redheads. Most of them capable of regicide, as proven by history.

“And you?” he raised his head from his hands, looking at Ciri who was washing her face at a basin.

She wiped her face with a towel: “’m gon-mfa o’”, she dropped the towel from her face, “back to Lan Exeter. The woman we took back from the bog, she must know something.” Ciri looked troubled.

“What is it?” Geralt asked her, watching as his daughter chewed her lip.

“She looks like me”, the young woman then burst, “And Yen won’t say, but I know who she must be.”

“The false Cirilla” Geralt sighed. Perhaps this moment had been inevitable, ever since they had gone back to Nilfgaard. He had never had the heart to talk to Ciri about what had happened towards the end at Stygga castle.

“I still can’t believe he ever wanted to…” Ciri pulled a face. Geralt grunted in agreement. “I want to talk to her, though”, Ciri went on, “and when she wakes up, I’ll let Yen know through the megascope. And Geralt?” she hesitated again.

“Hm?” he listened.

“Can you please not tell Yennefer that I met Morvran Voorhis, and about the proposal?” she blushed, fidgeting.

He gazed at her helplessly: “If that is all you want?”

“Yes, please. Just not yet”, she said in a small voice. He nodded, and rose to grab his saddle-bags. He had asked Zoltan to sell the new Roach for him, as there was no point taking the horse across the sea.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off somewhere south?” Ciri asked again, and he shook his head. He needed to collect Corinne, and the fewer people saw Ciri, the better. That mess with Voorhis and Roche was bad enough. At least the Temerian had promised Geralt to keep the information to himself. The general was a different matter, though, and once again the witcher wished he had stayed far away from politics. They made no sense to him, and in the end, he always ended up being played by somebody. He only hoped Ciri would be safe, and the best person to ensure just that was currently stuck in his own nightmares. So the witcher did what he thought best, and set out to retrieve Corinne Tilly from her home. It was time to return to the Imperial Palace.

 

 


	4. En route

_Redania, near the Free City of Novigrad, 13 th Velen in the year 1285 under the capricious rule of Queen Adda_

 

Morvran was riding Deithwen, his fiery white Nilfgaardian pureblood Ingrid had gifted to him, which should have given him joy even on rainy days. The sun was shining, and a light breeze made the air comfortably cool over the warm armour. It was ideal weather for the North, and yet his whole being was filled with restless anxiety and pain. Roche rode right next to him, and together they were making their way further north. Roche carried a sealed letter from Queen Anaïs under his shirt, waiting to be delivered. A ship was waiting for them in Novigrad. If everything worked to plan, the upcoming negotiations could move their endeavour to a completely new level. If an accord could be reached, they might finally have the backing necessary to make a move far bolder than what they could have previously realised. If. If. If. If Morvran’s knees were not hurting as much as they did, he might indeed have enjoyed the ride, but as it were, he clung on to the saddle and prayed for a long day of sitting the trot to be over. The bones in his behind ached something fierce, and putting weight on his legs was still ten times worse.

“You look like you swallowed a pint of salt”, Roche remarked idly when they fell into a walk upon reaching the gates. Morvran only groaned in response. They made it through the busy streets to the docks. At the end of the landing stage, they had to leave the horses behind. Some of the men stayed to guard them. Precious belongings were easily lost in the city, especially those that made a good price on the underground markets. Their contact was waiting for them, disguised as a merchant. She led them to one of the smaller ships. On board, they were ushered below deck immediately. Wincing with every step down the steep stairs of the hatchway, Morvran slowly made it to the cabin they were assigned to freshen up. The other parties, their contact informed them, were waiting.

“Best hurry up”, Roche said, throwing off the brown overcoat and revealing the blue uniform and silver lilies. They had lost most of their men in the woods, rolled up the banners and covered all colours, before completing the last furlongs incognito with a much smaller escort. There was no need to alert Governor var Attre to their presence and have him tattle on them. Morvran moved as fast as he could, peeling away the plain officer’s armour and digging a set of fine clothes out of the saddlebags. They were rumpled, but it would have to do. He washed quickly, exchanged his shirt and doublet, and neatened his hair, which had gotten tangled up spectacularly during the day. Then he peeled off his trousers half-way, breathed deeply and sat down on the bunk. Getting rid of the boots was unpleasant. He felt Roche’s disbelieving gaze on him.

“Shit”, the commander of the Blue Stripes said when Morvran unwrapped the bandages around his swollen knees. The joints were scrapped, and otherwise discoloured various shades of the rainbow. “You took quite a fall there.”

“Mhh”, Morvran huffed, gingerly replacing the bandages, rolled up a fresh pair of stockings and dragged his silk breeches up as far as they would go. Roche, suppressing a grin, gave him a hand getting up. Vaguely mortified, Morvran turned away to finish dressing. The shoes, at least, were slippers.

“How do I look?” he asked the Temerian, who nodded at him once. Time to impress, then. The Koviri field marshal was waiting for them.

~*~

_A few docks down, in the Free City of Novigrad, in the year 1285 under the thumb of the King of Beggars_

 

Geralt had collected Corinne from her house. He was relieved to see that a woman could travel with less than a room full of chests, as Yennefer habitually did. The oneiromancer carried but a large woven bag and one trunk, which he helped her transport the short way to the harbour. Their passage back to Nilfgaard had already been arranged during a game of gwent at the Golden Sturgeon, the victory of which had brought down the cost for two cabins substantially. His gear was stowed away quickly, and so he spent his time on deck, watching the large vessel leave port. The Sirena carried corn from Mettina north, all the way to Kovir, and returned with ores down the coast all the way to Nilfgaard. The captain, a brooding man in his fifties, took passengers as he had room to spare, and thus the other cabins were filled with various folk: a group of merchants from Nazair were already on board, and so was a larger family of halflings from Blaviken. Another cabin had been taken by an older Nilfgaardian woman, who had been visiting her son stationed in the North. Apart from Geralt and Corinne, six elves had come on board to share the last free cabin. During a brief conversation before departure, Geralt offered to share his space for a portion of the cost, but the nonhumans had no coin to spare, and the witcher thought their pride kept them from accepting his offer anyhow. Instead they huddled in the bow, shooting wary glances at the d’hoine on board.

Corinne joined him on the quarterdeck, and together they leaned on the railing watching the city disappear on the horizon. The next port of landing would be Cidaris, and according to the captain, they would make it there before nightfall. The following outward tide would take them on the way to Cintra, and then further down the coast. They would reach Nilfgaard in about a week, if the wind held.

“How do you imagine I will be received at the palace?” Corinne asked nervously, catching him off-guard. He had not told her who the dreamer was. Her hands still shook, and she took the occasional sip from a small bottle she carried with her. Geralt had not missed the signs.

“How do you know we are going to a palace?” he asked, although he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

“I had a vision”, she confirmed his suspicion, “of seeing the golden towers, the court. Something will happen, but I cannot see it all. Something is blocking me.” She looked at him briefly, then at the sea again. He sighed.

“It depends”, he guessed, “If Yennefer is there, I would imagine it going over better. With the others, I don’t have much experience.” In truth, it had not really occurred to him bringing an outsider in would be a problem. The previous times Geralt had worked for a monarch, it was Calanthe, Foltest, and briefly Henselt. From what the witcher had seen so far, all those courts worked in rather different ways. With Emhyr’s, he had no clue. He would just have to follow his hunches. Thoughtfully, he watched the coastline slowly passing by.

“You have had prophetic dreams before, have you not?” Corinne changed the topic after a pause, “Of the girl you were searching all these years before.”

Geralt nodded. A smile crept into his face: “I found her.”

“That is good”, Corinne laid a hand on his arm, “I think there is something we could fill the time on this ship with.”

Looking over to her, Geralt grew curious: “And what would that be?” he asked suggestively.

She slapped his arm softly and laughed: “Not that, though I shall take your interest as a compliment. I think I can teach you the basics about dreaming. You may well have an aptitude for it. Have you ever worked any magic apart from the witcher signs?”

“My mother was a sorceress and druid”, he admitted, “She had prophetic visions.”

“Then, if you are up for it, we shall see if you have inherited some talent”, Corinne smiled. He had nothing better to do, so he agreed. Walking ahead of the oneiromancer on the way below deck, he did not see the sadness in Corinne’s eyes as she took another deep swallow from her bottle.

 

 


	5. A Helping Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...this is where the rating changes...

_At sea near Cintra, eve of the 13 th Velen 1285:_

 

“Oneiromancy is the practice of dream seeing”, Corinne began to explain to Geralt, sitting together in her cabin, “Seeing dreams appear unintentionally and intentionally. The first kind are the visions of a clairvoyant, the second oneiromancy. As an intentional practice, oneiromancy has three phases: connecting, dreaming, and oneirocriticism, or interpretation. We will begin with the first. Do you remember what we did in order to search for your girl back then?”

Geralt remembered: “You asked me questions about her.”

“Exactly.” Corinne confirmed. “The questions prepared your mind to search for her. It formed an association, increasing the chance of you dreaming of her. The second phase, dreaming, happens automatically, once you go to sleep. I use a simply hypnosis to speed up the process for my clients, but any trance or meditation can be used to reach a similar effect.”

“And then, the third stage?” the witcher asked.

“And the most difficult one”, Corinne smiled, “the interpretation. Dreams are full of symbols, parts of memories, anticipations. Some call them the future, fate, or destiny. Others call them chances, expectations, or even self-fulfilling prophecies. There is no consensus over which is more appropriate, but what scholars agree upon is that dreams always contain both fact and fantasy. Interpretation requires us to try and separate the two.”

“How?” Geralt frowned.

She considered the question: “It becomes easier with experience, but what helps is the degree of detail attached to a dream.”

“Like the quality of an illusion?” he wondered.

“Yes. Also, knowing something about the life of the dreamer can help. Often, the dreamer themselves can contribute to the best interpretation. When entering their dreams, you will not be able to take shape in most cases, but your intentions will be able to direct some of the dream.” Corinne explained further. “The only time you will be able to directly influence the dream is when the dreamer dreams of you, provides for you a presence. The same way, if they push you out, you will wake up.”

“Does that mean the dreamer needs to consent to the process?” Geralt tried to puzzle out.

She nodded, hesitantly: “Yes, at least subconsciously, unless other forms of magic interfere with the process.”

That actually made him feel better. The thought of being able to tap into just anybody’s mind seemed deeply violating. “How do we know I am able to do this?”

“By trying, but I have a sense that you will. Clairvoyance and the talent for oneiromancy tend to coexist. The latter helps to control the former”, she said with a knowing look. The witcher had already guessed that she was gifted with both capabilities herself. He wondered what she had seen in her vision of the palace.

“Who do we practice on?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“Pick anyone you like. They will need to be asleep, but otherwise distance does not exist for dreamers. Concentrate on that person, not too forcefully, and meditate. Try to come as close to falling asleep as possible… breathe…”

He followed her instruction, calming his breath and falling into the familiar rhythm of meditation. Who did he want to concentrate on? Not Yen, not somebody too close. Emhyr appeared to be shielded, maybe somebody around him. The thought made Geralt feel like a voyeur, or a spy. Vattier de Rideaux? Thaler? He wondered if spies and diplomats had techniques to avoid having their dreams read. Surely they knew way too many court intrigues and secrets to leave themselves open to these practices. Speaking of intrigues, he was quite curious what Roche and Voorhis had been up to in Velen. He hoped Ciri was alright. Breathing deeply, he began to focus.

~*~

_Simultaneously, in the Free City of Novigrad:_

 

The negotiations had finished successfully. He felt unusually lightheaded as they departed from the ship, back in their travelling clothes. It was almost midnight. Too late they had realised that no board could be had in any reputable inn in the city, swarming as it was with all the people the north was expelling from its midst. They could not risk the Passiflora for fear of discovery, so they ended up in a rundown, grimy whorehouse near the port. Morvran was fairly certain that touching any of the girls there had a high likelihood of retrieving an unpleasant disease as part of the service. Paying a hefty sum upfront put the madam in a good enough mood to sell a room without service for a few hours.

“I know your kind, honeys. Love is like a good weed, grows in all kinds of crannies”, she winked and showed them the room. It had a single rank double bed. The madame left a vial on the nightstand before leaving them alone. Morvran closed his eyes in mortification. When he opened them, he found Roche shaking his head with a grin. From somewhere in his bags, the Temerian produced a large bottle and two small cups.

“Best Temerian Rye”, he lifted the bottle and set to uncork it, before pouring for them both. “To the new order!” they toasted. Morvran took a sip of the strong liquor, pulling a face. “The new order”, he agreed nevertheless, and chucked the rest of his drink. The vodka became more drinkable after a few cups, and eventually they found themselves lying back on the bed, down to their comfortable clothes, staring at the ceiling companionably.

“I reckon you gonna be Emperor soon,” Roche slurred.

“Time will tell,” Morvran guessed, trying to concentrate.

“By winter you’re gonna sit in that big palace, ruling the biggest friggin’ empire ever, mark my word”, Roche shook his head, grinning in disbelief, “Impress your Ingrid, huh?”

Morvran thought long and hard. Ingrid. Ingrid was a sore spot in all of this. Roche must have noticed he had gone silent, for the commander propped himself up on his arm, looking down at the Nilfgaardian.

“There some issue?” Roche frowned, wrinkling up his forehead. Morvran stared into his dark, concerned eyes. Roche’s pupils were blown wide.

“Court wouldn’t accept her”, he muttered, “No princess, no value in making an alliance with just any northern lady.”

“She come as a mistress?” the commander pushed further.

“Mh-mh”, he grumbled, closing his eyes again. He felt tired, and loose, and very, very drunk. “She’s too smart to play second fiddle, and I-I wouldn’t do that to her. ‘s not like that between us anyhow. S’ more like – friends?”

“Friends?” Roche asked disbelievingly.

“With, well…” he countered, but got stuck searching for words.

“Intimate friends?” the commander asked, smiling softly. Morvran nodded.

“So you gotta find yourself a princess”, Roche huffed, lying down on his side again. Morvran opened one eye to stare at him. “You never told me what happened in that tent after I left…” Morvran closed the eye again quickly, and groaned. “I mean” Roche went on, “What did you do to her to make her run off like that?”

“’pparently I offended her horribly?” Morvran guessed, raising himself and fishing for the bottle that was stuck between their pillows. They had abandoned the cups fairly early on.

“How that?” Roche asked, observing him with those dark eyes.

“I asked her to marry me” Morvran said softly, softer than intended. Roche’s face did something funny, Morvran did not know how to read it. Was it pity? Frustration? He took another long gulp of vodka instead. His eyes fell on the oil vial, and he quickly took another gulp, before passing the bottle to Roche.

The commander of the Temerian Special Forces drank as well, and dropped the now empty bottle on the floor. He shrugged his shoulders: “She’s a prickly one, from what I saw and heard, and stubborn to boot. Don’t ask me whether she got it from Emhyr or the witcher, or both. She said no, then?”

The general pondered that question, simple as it was. He laid back down, fiddling with a button of his shirt. Roche’s face appeared above him, and a steady hand stilled his fingers: “What did she say, hm?” Their eyes locked, suddenly rather close. Morvran could smell the alcohol on Roche’s breath.

“She had me on my knees, asking her to become the empress at” he hiccupped, “at my side. And then”, hick, “instead of answering, or letting me even fi”, hick, “finish any explanation, she just turned on her heel and…” he paused, holding his breath trying to get rid of the hiccup.

“Foolish girl” Roche said into his face, “We’re putting a damn good man on that throne, and I know a thing or two about good men…” The commander famous for his loyalty to Foltest spoke in heartfelt conviction, eyes smouldering as they seemed to look into his very soul.

Morvran felt his face heat up with a familiar feeling curling in his belly. Breaking eye-contact, his gaze fell right at Roche’s lips, watching as they opened to say something. But somehow, nothing came out, and then they were caught in a moment of mutual tension and uncertainty, until an unnamed force angled his face forward and their lips connected.

Roche’s kiss was hot, and devouring, and rough with stubble. Morvran felt it grating against his own chin that was just regaining a fuzz after last morning’s shave. His hands found the other’s shoulders and neck, drawing him in as Roche moved further on top of him. Their noses bumped amidst the battle of their lips, and Roche gasped enough for Morvran to attack his mouth with the tongue. Somebody moaned as their bodies dragged against each other, legs tangled. A thigh was pressed against his crotch, and Morvran gasped in need while Roche kissed his neck and then his belly, rucking up his shirt. Following the motion, the general raised his upper body, his hands finding purchase on Roche’s shirt while his own was dragged over his head. He lifted his arms to be rid of the garment, and ran his hands through Roche’s chest hair as the commander disposed of his own shirt as well. Hungry fingers found the laces of each other’s pants, and soon enough a strong hand curled around his shaft, dragging at the foreskin. Blindly, Morvran searched for the oil, and uncorked the vial while the other man had gone back to kissing his neck. Hand slick with lubricant, he pulled the commander back up. Their lips met, and Morvran made good use of the oil to coat his companion’s cock. He pumped him gently at first, then ever bolder. Roche had found the oil as well, and thus, foreheads touching and eyes closed, they jerked each other off. Pleasure hit him hard and fast, and he felt himself come to the edge. Roche keened at the loss of his hand, but a little rearranging of their hips brought their lengths right together. Roche caught on, wrapping a hand around them both. The pleasure rose a second time, and tumbling over that edge, Morvran lost it, spilling his seed over Roche’s hand and his own belly. Roche let go of them, and rolled a vaguely-surprised Morvran onto his front. Kneeling atop of him, Roche used his thighs to push Morvran’s legs together. Using more oil, the commander pushed his erection into the narrow space between Morvran’s thighs, right below his cleft, and started to rut against him. The sensation of Roche’s cock dragging over the sensitive skin between his balls and his anus was divine. With a growl, the commander buried his nose against his shoulders and flexed his hips a couple more times; then too, he came. Breathlessly, they rode out the pleasure between them, and eventually Roche came to still on top of him. A moment longer they basked in each other’s body heat, before the commander pulled away.

Morvran felt immediately cooler, and awkwardness suddenly rose in his chest. He felt the stickiness of Roche’s come between his thighs. The sliver of embarrassment ebbed when he felt a single finger gently caressing up his spine. A small peck was placed onto his shoulder blade. Glancing down his side, he watched the Temerian get up and grab a rag from the sideboard. Dipping it in a bowl, he washed himself off before rinsing the rag and passing it to Morvran.

“No need to get up”, Roche mumbled, looking at his knees. Morvran suddenly became aware of the aches again. He rolled to his side, instead of rising to his knees. Roche looked away as he wiped the juices off his skin the best he could, and dragged up his breeches, which were still tangled around his calves. Roche did the same, and doused the candles before returning to the bed and dragging up the blankets.

“Goodnight, my Emperor”, the commander whispered softly, as just the first rays of sunlight crept over the town.

“Goodnight”, Morvran whispered back, and curled up on his side, facing away in the sudden silence. After a moment, Roche wrapped an arm around him, pulling him just close enough to sense the warmth radiating off the other.

They rose together several hours later, and Roche went outside to puke up his guts, going by the noises. Morvran sat in the taproom briefly, unenthusiastically spooning some thin porridge and waiting for his companion to return. Roche declined the breakfast. “Ready to go?” he inquired. Roche nodded bleakly, but managed a gentle smile. On the way out of town, they picked up the horses and worried men, who had been left in the dark of their whereabouts. Roche brusquely informed them that a breakthrough in negotiations had demanded some impromptu celebration. Once they had everyone assembled, they took the southern road along the coast to the bay of Gors Velen, where the fleet was anchored. Their work in the North was done. It was time to return to Nilfgaard: now or never, as Roche would say.

 

 


	6. The Violet in the Valley of Flowers

_An abandoned sawmill in the woods near Aldersberg, 14 th Velen in the year 1285 of elven subjugation_

The squirrels sat in the tree, overlooking the little-used trail leading through the hinterland of Aldersberg. Ever since the Order of the Flame Rose had settled nearby, the paths connecting Dol Blathanna and Mahakam had become dangerous. Knights combed through the forest, detaining any nonhuman they saw, questioning them, often violently, ever searching for those unwilling to bow down into the dirt and serve the d’hoine. Chireadan observed the path, waiting for the hav’ca to turn up. The hawkers had become timid under the ever-increasing presence of the knights, and supplies were growing dangerously scarce. Their commando would need to move soon, if provisions did not come in tonight. So he waited in the tree, long after the agreed time, observing the empty road. Nobody came. In the first sunlight, Chireadan left his post. His feet found the way back through the forest to the refugee camp. Several hungry families were huddled in the cave, waiting in the dark too afraid to light a fire. His comrades looked at him hopefully, but their faces sunk when they saw him arrive empty-handed. There would be no food today. Tomorrow, they would leave the cave and travel west the long way to Mount Carbon. It was a dangerous route, full of waiting knights, but where else were they meant to go for supplies? The roads got saver past the Redanian border, but until then, only the long experience of the Scoia’tel moving unseen on hidden path would get the refugees out of Aedirn, out of hell. The d’hoine had enslaved his people, with their laws of serfdom. They would not let them leave, yet they would not let them live either. Running from starvation in the villages and towns, his brethren left their homes in the night, taking only what they could carry. More starved on the road. And those who made it to the end of the road, their fate was unknown. Perhaps they too starved, wherever they went. But at least, Chireadan thought darkly, they starved away from the gloating fat faces of their d’hoine lords or the sweet-faced betrayer of their own kind, the Emperor’s whore of the valley.

~*~

“Va fail, it is good to see you, my sister”, Ida Emean aep Sivney, the elven sage inclined her head deeply, and she returned the gesture: “And good to see you too, Aen Saevherne.”

 “The queen is speaking to Yennefer. They might join us later. The others are already waiting”, Ida informed her while walking down the path from the pavilion to which guests of Dol Blathanna, the valley of flowers, travelled before seeing the queen.

The wide path led into the fortified mouth of a huge cave. It was the largest one of many openings that gaped in the sheer cliff of the mountain, Caer Deireádh, the last keep. As Ida told her as they walked, a few years ago about two thousand elves had lived here and in the surrounding area, making it the largest settlement of the elven state. When Emhyr had given the land to the elves, the humans had been expelled, leaving large parts of the country uninhabited. Many places were only temporally frequented by groups of elves living as nomads with their herds. Others who had come later, skilled in farming the land, had settled in the villages the human’s left behind to farm the fertile earth. Now the population had grown by ten times, also in Caer Deireádh, leaving the caves full. Ramshackle huts and been erected with haste around the mountain, destroying the natural state of the woods the elves had long been keen to protect.

As the harvests in Aedirn begun to fail two years ago, the governor left to establish order in the leaderless country had pleaded with Emhyr for more soldiers to keep the rebellious peasants in check. But the Emperor had promised the Merchant Guild a withdrawal of the army by summer, and without the Guild’s credit, no soldier could be paid. So when the crop spoiled on the fields after sudden rainfalls, and nobody could bring in the harvest quick enough, the villagers rose against their lords in many places. It had started near Guleta, with a bailiff flogging a peasant to death who could not pay his taxes. Chaos broke lose in the crowds without anybody in place to stop it. The Nilfgaardian nobles owning good land near the Pontar eventually rallied enough support in the capital to dispatch the Alba Division north, led by General Voorhis, to reinstall order. But the mountains and forests farther from the main trade routes remained a lawless place. By winter the food supplies had become scarce, and first riots broke out in the countryside. A fragile peace was established with food shipments from Redania and Temeria, and by spring the situation had eased, only to escalate completely when a dry spring and hot summer led to another weak harvest. The winter following it was brutal. Only the mercenary units hired from Kaedwen and the hard hand of the Knights of the Flame Rose allowed General Voorhis to keep control of most of the country. At a terrible price.

The revival of the knight order serving the Eternal Fire had been met with deep suspicion by the sorceresses, and predictably the knights had spread their fanatical hatred for anything magical or nonhuman among the already angry and superstitious peasants and petty, boorish northern gentry. The racial bigotries that had festered in the country for decades had once more escalated into pogroms, in an intensity not witnessed since that terrible summer day in Rivia, 1268, or the massacre of Ard Carreigh. The Lodge had come together again, doing all in their power to sway the northern rulers to withstand popular demands against nonhumans. In some places, it had been easy; in others, impossible. Nobles and merchants kept butting heads over land rights and tolls, blind to the kindling spirit of civil war. Even in the kingdoms that had retained or gained a capable leader after falling under the overarching power of the Emperor, the poison of the demagogues of the Eternal Fire spread. Safely tucked away in Aretusa, she had not seen it as quickly as her sisters at the courts, but a visit from Philippa had eventually convinced her that the security they had once sought from Emhyr was eroding with the Emperor’s inability to pacify the north. A new order had been birthed in the chaos, frail and barely visible, but too many reports had made it to her ear to ignore the growing threat. And that was why she could no longer ignore the voices of her sisters, calling the Lodge of Sorceresses back into action to shape the path of the known world.

Below the mountain lay a large natural system of tunnels, grottos, and even a subterranean lake, fortified and extended by the Aen Seidhe of a forgotten age. The ruins of the elven keep had been patched up by lesser craftsmen, trying to imitate the style. Ida led her down the main stone road that led through the narrow cave mouth into a gigantic cavern. Light fell through a range of openings in the rock, and a mix of magical lights and plain torches provided enough light to illuminate the underground town. Homesteads were carved into the walls, with dozens of graceful bridges and stairwells connecting the many archways. The main road curled around a series of mighty pillars, some carved, some natural, leading deeper into the cave towards the shores of the black lake. Rising from the water, the delicate structures of the residence of the elven queen rose towards the rock ceiling. Tor Blathanna, they called it now, the tower of the flower.

Ascending a series of stairs that led into a reception room, she came to once more congregate with her sisters. Inevitably, her first glance fell on Philippa Eilhart, standing at the end of a long table gesticulating to the other present mages. The Redanian advisor interrupted her speech, purple eyes flashing as they discerned the appearance of the Nilfgaardian sorceress. Since the war, Philippa had done well for herself at the court of Radovid’s widow, Foltest’s incestuous daughter, Adda the White, the incumbent Queen of Redania and Kaedwen. The witcher Geralt had twice broken the curse that had turned the princess into a striga. Gossip had the queen had found a rather _personal_ way of showing Philippa gratitude over the demise of her insane husband.

A seat further down the table, Keira Metz was picking at her fingernails with a bored look. Since her elopement with the witcher Lambert had ended badly, the sorceress had returned to the Temerian court by Philippa’s recommendation to the young queen Anaïs, Foltest’s second daughter and half-sister to Adda. But it seemed that Keira’s influence had never managed to overcome the guidance of Vernon Roche, who had once saved the younger queen at Loc Muinne, and had resumed his role as commander of the Temerian Special Forces. Now it seemed the commander had fallen in league with General Voorhis, after supporting him through the uprisings in Aedirn, and Keira found her influence further diminished by the blossoming alliance between Temeria and Nilfgaard.

Margarita herself had been busy reopening the doors of Aretusa to new mage scholars, hoping to rebuild what was destroyed in Radovid’s witchhunts. She took a seat across from Keira. This meant that only Francesca Findabair, the queen of Dol Blathanna, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss Merigold and Fringilla Vigo were missing. The latter entered just then.

“Fringilla Vigo”, Philippa greeted her with a sneer, “Has Emhyr let you come out to play today?”

“Philippa”, Margarita admonished harshly. The Redanian rolled her eyes. Fringilla was about to retort, when the doors behind her back opened a second time, and the last members of the Lodge to join them that day appeared. The elven queen glided across the room to her chair at the other end of the table. A rolling storm cloud seemed to hover around the Sorceress Supreme of Nilfgaard, who followed behind her. She and Ida took the seats flanking the queen, which left one empty chair.

“Triss is helping Cirilla break the curse, as we planned,” Francesca said melodiously, ostensibly oblivious to the icy glares Yennefer was shooting at them all.

 “Poor girl”, Margarita sighed. She had been upset to hear her sister’s plans for Cirilla, but had only learned of them far too late to stop anything. Keira and Fringilla stiffened.

“We do not have much time, and even more to discuss. I suggest we proceed swiftly to the important matters”, the queen pointed out. Everyone was silent.

Wasting no time, Philippa began to report: “General Voorhis has been seen in Novigrad by the agents of our dear friend, Francis Bedlam. He and Roche had a secret meeting on a Koviri merchant vessel, which arrived hours before they came on board, and left in the dark of night”, a general muttering interrupted the sorceress.

“So he met with Tankred’s emissary”, Keira stated, “but do we know they came to an agreement?”

“Francis suggests the general and commander spent the evening celebrating at the brothel”, Philippa paused for a second, “with another. Apparently Roche called Voorhis ‘his Emperor’ in the course of the evening.” A snicker could be heard from Ida, while Keira was looking sour. “I immediately called on our contact in King Tankred’s court, and she confirms that the king intends ally himself with the Emperor, but we are not currently privy to the specifics of their agreement.”

 “My sources report that Voorhis is expected in Gors Velen today”, Keira added, drawing the others attention, “He will ready the fleet and reach the capital in one week, weather permitting. When he gets there, he cannot waste time.” Ida’s laughter stopped, and the mood shifted notably.

“Those are dire news”, the queen said, “we are running out of time. Where is the witcher?” Gazes shifted to Yennefer.

 “He found Corinne Tilly, and has taken her on a ship a day ago. They must be somewhere close to Cintra now, but if their ship lands in port more often, Voorhis may yet make good time”, Emhyr’s court mage calculated.

“We should have found a way to return him to the capital faster, damn it!” Fringilla cursed in frustration. Yennefer’s expression could have turned milk sour.

Across from a seething Keira, Margarita shook her head: “We could not have known when we planned this that Voorhis would act so soon. The alliance with Tankred was forged much faster than any of us expected.”

“Morvran Voorhis on the imperial throne must be prevented at all cost, now that Ciri has been seen alive,” Fringilla said, smiling venomously, “Don’t you agree, Yennefer?” Fringilla saw with dark joy how the great Yennefer of Vengerberg pressed her lips together.

“If anything happens to Ciri”, Yen said ever so softly, looking at each of them in turn, “you will all wish you were still in Emhyr’s dungeon, stuck in a hut in the countryside, or within Radovid’s clutches.” Something hardened on Philippa’s face, and an uneasy shifting of limbs went through the room.

“We all have only the best intentions for Ciri,” Philippa replied, voice clipped, “which is why we must act now.”

Margarita hoped they were right.

 

 


	7. The Mirror

_18 th Velen 1285 in the reign of King Tankred of Kovir, Lan Exeter, in the house of the sorceress Triss Merigold, _

Outside the window, autumn had turned the leaves golden. The big storm the previous day had torn at the foliage, leaving the crowns of the trees almost bare. The weather had calmed during the night, and now a soft breeze was playing with the leaves and tossing them about. Triss was tidying up her study, an ear on the stairs to the guestrooms on the first floor, when suddenly a door banged open and quick steps hammered down the stairs. Ciri stomped around the corner. Triss picked up a copy of Tissaia de Vries biography, and stopped dead, seeing the tears of rage on the young woman’s red face.

“Where are they?” the ash-blonde yelled, and Triss almost flinched. No, she actually flinched, the first time since her last meeting with the witch hunters. Those little piggies had gone wee-wee-wee to flaming hell. Her attention went from the memory back to the present the moment Ciri flung the book she was holding to the floor.

“Ciri!” she cursed, extending her arm to pick up the book but pausing in mid-motion, “whatever has happened?”

“She told me how she got to Crookback Bog”, the blonde cried, pacing, “and _who_ she went with!” Ciri whirled around and pointed a finger at Triss’ chest, “Don’t take me for stupid, I want to know where those bitches are!”

Triss face froze. No, she told herself, Ciri is upset. Yelling now will just make it worse. She offered for them to sit down, but the young woman refused.

“Fine”, the redhead gave up, “as you please. You may have missed during your quiet little witcher life on Skellige what is happening in the rest of the north, but I assure you we haven’t. Only ten years ago mages and nonhumans were burning on the pyres of Novigrad, have you forgotten that?” Reluctantly, Ciri shook her head. “Well, have you any idea that the same and worse is happening in Aedirn, spreading to Lyria and Kaedwen? No? Well-” she caught herself. It was not her intention to fight.

“I have seen the refugees in Novigrad”, Ciri admitted, “I didn’t know it was so bad, there are little news of the continent on the isles”, she hesitated, “and we were gone a long way farther most of the time.”

“Not everybody has that luxury,” Triss bit her lip, “Will you at least tell me what Becca has said, so we can have a sensible conversation about it?”

~*~

_Attre, a beautiful day in the spring of 1285, during the reign of Kaer’zer Emhyr_

 

Becca was on the way back from the butcher, when she passed a small crowd that had formed around three bards playing at the wayside. She had no money left, and the meat would need to be delivered soon to the monastery kitchen in the hot weather, but she decided to listen for just a minute. Standing close to the house on the other side of the street, she listened to the music.

“Beautiful weather, isn’t it”, a tinkerer who had pitched his stall near her remarked. She smiled and nodded at him, when he gave her a curious glance: “You remind me of someone an awful lot”, the man suggested.

“Do I”, she lowered her gaze, busying herself with looking at his goods and trinkets. Her gaze fell on a set of brass mirrors propped up on the display shelf.

“Ah”, the tinkerer smiled, “my lady would like a mirror. These ones are nice, but I have some much nicer ones.” He pulled box from somewhere behind the counter, opening the lid to show her a small range of different mirrors made of glass, stuffed into straw and wrapped in cloth.

“I really don’t have any money with me”, she apologised, stepping back. Mirrors were forbidden in the Temple. They encouraged vanity.

“That is a pity, for a mirror can reveal much about ourselves” he sighed, and gave her a shrewd look. But I don’t know anything about myself, she thought, I don’t even remember my name, my past, where I came from. When she had woken up at the monastery, the sisters had tended to her, telling her how she had been brought in with a terrible bump on her head. It had not even scarred, but she could remember nothing of her past. Charitably, the sisters had taken her in, and she had remained to serve the maiden, mother, and crone.

The tinkerer still looked at her. “Tell you what, I have one I can’t sell anymore. It’s broken, but I’ll give it to you for free, if you wish.” He pulled a mirror from the bottom of the box, and unwrapped it. To the light came a beautiful oval hand mirror, cast into a frame of artfully wrought brass. A tear went down the middle of the glass, and a stone was missing from the top of the frame. Still, it was incredibly beautiful, and looking at the pieces of herself in the glass brought up an indescribably desire to look inside some more.

“Really?” she asked uneasily.

“I’m doing it for my soul, sister”, the tinkerer waved off, something sly in his eyes.

“Uh – thank you,” Becca stuttered in confusion, when he handed it to her with a little bow. She walked back to the monastery as fast as she could, quickly dropping the meat in the kitchen on the way to her cell. There, she carefully unwrapped the mirror and looked at her face.

~*~

“The mirror restored her memories,” Ciri interrupted her tale, giving Triss an accusing glare, “memories Fringilla Vigo took from her. And then she went to find Fringilla, to confront her about what happened, and also, because Fringilla might know something about where a vial had gone, a vial that had been stolen from her.”

Triss swallowed, as Ciri looked her straight in the eye.

“So I’m wondering if Fringilla is working alone to curse my father, or if other members of the lodge are involved as well. You would not happen to know anything about that?” The green eyes were sparkling with fury. Triss did not say anything. What could she have said, without lying to a young woman who would soon need to learn the truth anyhow? But Ciri was waiting, hands crossed over her chest, stormy-eyed.

“There are several members of the lodge involved”, she admitted, whereupon Ciri rose from her seat with fury expressed in every movement of her body, “-but things have gotten out of control, and there are disagreements, Ciri please listen to me!” Triss got up to follow her back towards the stairs.

“No!” the blonde turned around to her on the landing, “you will listen to me now. I know that all-almost all of you are involved, I know Keira and Fringilla are, and – I am taking Becca to Skellige, as per her wish, and when I’m back, you will take me to the Lodge, and then-then we will talk.”

~*~

_On the road from Oxenfurt, on the day before the autumn equinox_

The carriage rattled along the old road. Soon, the Nilfgaardian engineers would reach the city and conscribe more labour to build a stone road, but for now it was the dirt that the northerners were accustomed to. Becca could not believe that the life she had learned to take for granted in the last years was built on these northern notions. Fate had exchanged her featherbed for a pallet, silk for hemp, sun for rain, and stone roads for dirt tracks. But it was not fate, a dark voice whispered inside her, it was Emhyr var Emreis, her dearest husband. After she had regained her memories, she had started to gather information. Her marriage had never been announced as void, but there was talk the empress had been executed for adultery (she scoffed at _that_ ), and the Nilfgaardian officer she had gotten the information from after a bottle of vodka and some sultry looks had firmly believed the empress was dead. He would not even speak her name, confessing the Emperor had forbidden it. Cirilla, the dark voice whispered, my name was Cirilla, and it was wiped from history like the usurper’s name. If Emhyr had gone to these length to eradicate her memory, she wondered, why did he not kill me? She would teach him what a mistake that was.

She had left the monastery soon after, travelling with a band of elven bards who were heading for Vizima. From there, the troupe returned south, leaving her by herself at an inn. There she had picked up a rumour that the Alba Division was fighting peasant revolts in Aedirn, which was soon joined by more titbits about the political situation. She had thought of going to Aldersberg to find the general, but the roads were not save. It was another evening at the New Narakort, when a blonde woman, fawned over by a gaggle of admirers, had sat down on a neighbouring table. Listening in on their conversation, Becca had been disgusted with the sexual innuendo the woman spread to anything she said, when another man walked up to the table.

“Keira Metz, the most beautiful sorceress west of Dol Blathanna”, the drunkard in blue uniform sneered, “Are your kind still plotting the murder of kings, or have you taken up a new business?” He kept yelling about how a decent inn should not be frequented by murderous witches, until he was dragged outside by Keira’s admirers. For the time being, they did not return. The other guests, roused by the commotion, went back to their drink and food, but Becca had found her chance.

“Excuse me, Madam Metz”, she curtsied politely, “do you have a minute to spare?”

The blonde sorceress looked her up and down haughtily: “What, you want a minute with a murderer of kings?”

“Precisely that”, Becca smiled coldly and sat down. Many weeks after the conversation that followed, in the carriage on the way to Velen, Becca began to wonder if the price for revenge was too steep. Her face in the mirror was split along the crack, split between two lives and two women. One half wished she had not agreed to help the sorceresses, but looking at the grim faces of Keira Metz and Fringilla Vigo sitting across from her, she knew it was too late.

 

 


	8. Changing Tides, part 1

_Two days earlier, 16 th Velen 1285, the coast of Cintra_

 

“At all cost”, they had agreed. Six sorceresses stood in a circle on the cliffs of Cintra, far away from the nearest village. Somewhere out there, past the horizon, Yen thought, Ciri’s mother had drowned all those years ago. She briefly entertained the fantasy of a vengeful Pavetta rising from the floods, dragging her into the abyss of Sedna. Perhaps she would deserve it for the things she was about to do. Now at a distance, she could make out a large number of triangular black sails.

“If you’re ready sometime?” Philippa’s voice cut over the breeze, and she nodded sharply. Then they raised their arms and began to chant. First the wind turned silent, and for a moment they stood in complete silence. Then a pulse of energy shot up from the earth between them, and the wind picked up, circling around them, first slow and then ever faster. A murmuring grew into a howl. Yen had closed her eyes, yet through her eyelids she was aware the darkening skies and the sudden flashes of lightning that were immediately followed by deafening thunder. The wind ripped on her dress, and without her sisters she might have fallen over. The last syllable of the spell was eventually uttered, and she opened her eyes to the rain clashing down on them. The grass shone like silver spikes in the downpour, and the sea flung itself against the cliffs, making the ground shake with its uproar. The black sails could not be spotted anymore in the churning waves. A cold sorrow reached into Yennefer’s heart, making her shiver like the soaked clothing that clung to her skin.

“Away”, Philippa screamed over the storm, and the sorceresses opened portals and disappeared. Yen stood alone on the cliff for a minute more, wondering if Pavetta had felt the same terror and elation, before she too opened a portal back to her tower, and the cliffs were left empty against the raging storm. At least, she hoped that she had bought Geralt some time.

~*~

“Furl the sails!” the captain’s voice hollered across the rain-slick deck. Soldiers scrambled, fast to get below deck or tie down any lose bit left on deck, including the sailors themselves. Roche, feeling his stomach rebel like a raving commando of Scoia’tel, was seated on the floor below decks, back against a crate and feet propped against a beam so that he was not thrown about by the constant motion of the ship. One hand was clenched around the robe securing the crates, the other wrapped around a pail. Ves, seated in a similar manner right across from him, looked as green as he felt.

The storm had come out of nowhere, if the captain of the ship was to be believed. Roche did not understand much of sailing, but to him the skies sure had looked sunny, with a good breeze in the back that made the sails swell and water gurgle at the good speed the boats were making. They had just rounded the cape of Cintra, when dark clouds had come from the land, and harsh winds and rain had crashed down on them. To the sailors, the storm was magical, the wrath of gods or sorcerers. Admiral var Snyder and General Voorhis had disappeared in the admiral’s cabin in the stern of the ship, and soon after all hell had broken lose. The mage who had suddenly appeared on the admiral’s vessel had run up to the deck, yelling at the sailors to tie her to the mast. Ever since, Roche had found himself in living hell, sick to his bones and more frightened as he had been in many years. Water had come into the cabin, mostly from above, but he was not sure. Everything was wet and cold and moving. And then, after what seemed like an eternity, it was over.

Sailors and soldiers carefully moved about the planks, gathering up what had come loose, bringing the ship back in order. Snyder and Voorhis had re-emerged, the former yelling orders, the latter pale and bent. A brief exchange of glances had told Roche the general had fared no better than he with the seasickness. Wishing to escape the caged feeling and the stink of his pail, Roche scrambled up to the deck. He found a length of rope to haul the pail overboard and wash it out. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of a few sailors untying the mage and carrying her below. The woman had obviously passed out. The sky, to his simultaneous horror and relief, was a calm and sunny as it had been hours ago. But as he found his way to the stern, where Voorhis was leaning on the railing, he realised what had changed. The ocean was calm around them, and wide. A mast could be seen here and there against the horizon. Some ships had set sail again, moving slowly. Others were left blank, yet other spots of black on the water, he came to realise, were nothing but flotsam, ripped sails and burst wood. Too small and distant to see, he knew nevertheless there had to be bodies floating in the sea.

“The admiral has given signals to some of the ships to search for survivors. We lost a man on this vessel as well. Meara must have gone overboard,” Voorhis said blankly beside him. Roche squeezed the general’s arm discretely, dropping his hands back on the railing before anyone noticed.

“Somebody knows we are coming” he offered, and the general nodded dejectedly.

“I had hoped to avoid armed conflict, but we must be prepared for it.” Voorhis stared at the water for a while, and Roche followed his gaze to watch how a broken piece of rigging was dragged along, gurgling and turning in the waves. The general turned to look at him, grief and exhaustion lining his face. But his low voice betrayed nothing but determination: “I preferred to take the crown without drawing the sword, and my understanding of the Emperor’s plans seemed to suggest he supported this change of command.” Roche did not miss the past tense. Voorhis smiled self-depreciatingly, but his eyes were aflame: “It appears I may have miscalculated his intentions.”

“Not all is lost”, the general added after a pause, as if speaking to himself, “but several commanders of the army are still backing the old order. Compromise is anathema to them. If Field Marshal var Moehoen, Vice-Admiral Trahe, or General Vreemde heard of our plans, they have men close enough to the capital to raise defences. It depends on whether Emhyr wants to fight about the throne after all. I have not heard anything from him since the assassination attempt, and that worries me greatly.”

“The capital is not a good ground for battle. Boats, horses, and archers will be useless, and civilian casualties high” Roche threw in.

Voorhis agreed: “The Impera Brigrade is the only unit trained to fight in the capital. They know the streets, tunnels, gates, and they have the largest number inside the city walls, and the palace. The fleet is not fit to fight them in this conditions, but that was never the plan. Enough ships have made it through the storm to overcome Trahe’s forces in Baccalà. If we can take the town, fortify ourselves, and block the river that would be to our advantage.”

Roche nodded: “It would take Vreemde at last a week to move his cavalry down from Vicovaro. What about var Moehoen?”

“The bulk of his forces are barracked in Cintra, but the field marshal himself is in the capital with his officers, where he might be capable of rallying substantial forces among the reservists and cadets, if he wishes so.”

“What backup do we have within a week’s reach?” Roche dared to ask.

~*~

_Geralt walked slowly through the palace, the skirts of a velvet gown swirling around his legs. A row of guards posted along the corridor bowed curtly as he came past, and the witcher frowned. At long last, he crossed through a small pair of double-doors into a large space. He had never been inside the famous ballroom before, but the design of the floor made it pretty clear where he was. Galleries encircled the room, held up by beautifully-carved black marble pillars. The banners of the golden sun of Nilfgaard hung over the double-thrones standing on a raised dais. The ballroom was empty, but music and the muttering of many voices could be heard from beyond the huge closed doors at the opposite end of the room. No, it was not empty. Emhyr var Emreis stood leaning against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest, faintly smiling at him. The Emperor turned away, towards a third set of doors behind the thrones. Geralt followed him, suddenly finding himself inside the palace garden of Vizima. The Emperor sat on a stone bench, on the far side, leaving space for another to sit. Together they stared at the garden, where a swallow and cormorant were fluttering about, half playing - half fighting. Emhyr held his smaller hand, then showed him a closed fist, which he opened to reveal a little seed. Suddenly it burst into flame, and the weather turned dark. A cackling laugh sounded behind him, and the witcher whirled around, coming face to face with a huge number of necrophages dressed in fine clothing, extending clawed hands-_

With a gasp and drenched in cold sweat, Geralt awoke. It took him a moment to orient. Then he realised he was aboard the Sirena, sailing to the capital. The weather must have taken a turn for the worse, because the ship was swaying quite a bit. Corinne was asleep in her bunk. Trying to shake off the strange aftertaste the dream had left, he made his way back to his own cabin. Rolling in his bunk, unable to go back to sleep, he wondered if he had tapped into the magic of oneiromancy, or if it had just been a really strange nightmare. We wondered if Ciri was alright. He resolved to discuss it with Corinne in the morning. Going for a regular meditation, the swaying of the ship eventually lulled him back under.

 

 


	9. Changing Tides, part 2

_Nilfgaard of the Golden Towers, 18 th Velen in the year 1285 of the reign of Kaer’zer Emhyr_

 

The Tower of Midinvaerne, housing the military academy, was illuminated by two rows of coal braziers flanking the entrance. On the backside of the tower, a large building had been added to accommodate the cadets’ barracks, training facilities, and socialising spaces adequate to the Empire’s newest officers. A coach approached, drawn by four black horses. Two attendants in armour assisted an older man in the finest clothes onto the square. He hurried up towards the tower, past a pack of chatting guests, and disappeared. Music was heard from inside the building. The coach was driven away, followed by another one. One by one a series of high-ranking officers and noblemen arrived, ostensibly to celebrate yet another anniversary of some battle or other.

Where the old city wall connected to the tower, a less conspicuous door provided entry to those who preferred not to be seen. Hidden by darkness, Devlin aep Meara and Jan Struycken walked over the abandoned battlements. The former had just returned from the north, with the aid of Cynthia, to report to Rideaux before General Voorhis could arrive in the capital. Luckily all agents of the intelligence carried an emergency glyph. If not for Cynthia’s prompt arrival, their ships might not have survived the storm. Upon his magical return to the capital, he had barely had time to sleep a few hours, before the master spy had sent him on his next mission.

Once in reach of the guarded door, Devlin motioned his comrade, who drew a blowpipe from his bracer and took out the guard with a well-aimed shot. They dragged the poisoned man past some old crates on the wall, then took his helmet and coat. Jan put on the items to replace the guard by the door, while Devlin shucked his cloak and slunk inside the building. It was not his first mission inside the military academy, and he knew the layouts well. Dressed as a servant, he carried a silver tray with a sealed envelope and bottle of fine Mettina Rosè. None of the visitors or guards paid him much heed as he descended the stairs to the meeting room. Here the situation began to require some skill. Six guards blocked the door for anyone without invitation. Luckily, Devlin had one. He looked around the foyer, good delivery boy that he was. Cynthia Apeldoorn used that moment to make her entrance. She wore a golden dress, fit for an empress or a very expensive prostitute, Devlin could not quite decide which she would be in his fantasy. The distraction among the men present was enough for Devlin to slip through the door that led to brick corridor adjacent to the meeting room. Pipes ran along the ceiling, the space to one wall was used for storage. Crouching behind a large dirty armchair, he pulled the Eye of Nehaleni from his pocket and dissolved the illusion over the uppermost part of the brick wall. Pulling on a lever, a hole was revealed, just large enough for a man to crawl through. He climbed in and let the concealed door fall shut. Calming his breath, he listened.

“…the Emperor has not been seen in weeks. Our ally has kept word.” the deep baritone of Havart var Moehoen declared. Various people began to argue, until somebody yelled for silence.

Another voice spoke up proudly: “Listen, my friends. The Emperor’s daughter has returned, she most definitely is alive! If her return becomes common knowledge, those in the Senate who have begun to open to General Voorhis’ preposterous ideas may yet falter and band behind the rightful heiress and a suitable husband, of course, chosen carefully in our common interest. My friends, we can wait no more. If our endeavour is meant to succeed, we must make haste. As we gather here, Voorhis is rallying the fleet and sailing south to us. He is expected to reach the mouth of the Alba at Baccàla in three days. My dear friends”, he voice paused dramatically, “Kovir is with him. An agreement has been reached. If we want to prevent the fall of Nilfgaard to the greed of merchants and end savagery in the north, we must act now!” Vice-Admiral Trahe, Devlin thought.

There was utter silence, before many voiced talked at once. Then the murmuring transformed into proclamations of assent. Devlin’s heart beat heavily in his chest. He needed to get the message to Rideaux as fast as possible. As silently as possible, he was about to move out of his hiding spot, when another voice rang over the commotion, clear and strong.

“Dear friends – dear friends, I thank you who stayed to hear me out, for the hour is dire. To bring a new era of peace and prosperity, we must all make sacrifices. As soldiers, officers of this great Empire, we have all made hard decisions, lost good men - in the faith that our actions would lead us all to a glorious future! But we have been disappointed. Our victories have been brought to naught by the greed of merchants and their derision for the Empire, the incendiary wrath of zealots, the indolence of negotiators – and a weakening Emperor. It is this last, simple truth that brings us all here.”

Another pause, utter silence. Devlin was sure he recognised the voice, but he could not place it.

“Who would I be among you,” the last speaker began anew, “if I was not willing to sacrifice something dear to me to bring us all the smoothest and safest victory we can have? I have sworn fealty to my Emperor, as you all have, but more than that, I have been his servant, his confidant, dare I say, his friend? Long I have carried his best interest in my heart. But in the interest of our great Empire, I can no longer close my eyes to the hour that is upon us all. The Emperor has lost his strength to lead us. As that hour draws near, and our enemy approaches fast, somebody must take the mantle, so that many innocent may live, and good men doing their duty will not spill blood needlessly. I pledge this to you, I will be this man. I will not tolerate a traitor’s son setting foot into the capital to become our king, and drag through the dirt everything that Nilfgaard stands for. No my lords - we will make this Empire great again!”

After a moment of silence, assenting murmurs could be heard. Then thundering applause. With shaking knees and unable to delay any longer, Devlin aep Meara fled through the brick tunnel and into the foyer. His pulse was racing as he walked among the merchants, up the stairs. With a glance around the empty hallway, he intended to exit the way he had come. He was about to open the door, when commotion could be heard. Quickly walking back, he saw from the corner of his eye how four guards dragged Jan into the building. Following the hallway, Devlin was relieved to find Cynthia flirting with some officers. He gave her the sign for danger, and she excused herself. Asking for the privies, she let him lead her down another hallway. On the way they found an empty guestroom.

“To Rideaux, immediately” he hissed, quickly blocking the door behind them with a chair. Cynthia nodded and opened a portal. He stepped through, dashing towards the study of their commander. Vattier de Rideaux was bent over a map when Devlin stumbled through his study door. The cold green eyes of the chief of intelligence snapped up to him.

“What have you learned?” he asked, and Devlin aep Meara reported. When he was finished, Rideaux’s face had gone still as stone.

“So the time has come”, he whispered at last, ringing a bell beside his desk. A servant appeared in the door: “Send for Evertsen, I must have words with him.” The servant disappeared.

Devlin swallowed: “Should we, I mean…?” He broke off, dragging his finger over his throat.

“Does Cynthia know of any of what you heard?” the master spy asked, brow furrowed. Devlin negated: “I came straight to you, sir. Sir, given that we have proof of the army’s plans to act against General Voorhis, that is, I still cannot believe it, but I am sure I recognised the voice…” he broke off.

Vattier nodded absentmindedly: “I had not considered the possibility. Your services have been invaluable to the Empire.” Then he wiped his face with his hands. “But what has just been said in this office must not leave these walls, ever” Vattier said gravely, coming around his desk and looking Meara right in the face. The spy felt naked for a second.

“Cynthia”, Rideaux took a step back and spoke into the xenogloss, “I need you to find our friend at the White Water Inn immediately. Tell him I will send a parcel soon.” The master spy but the device back into his pocket. “As for you, I have a mission of the utmost importance.”

~*~

Geralt awoke with his heart pounding. The first thing he noticed was the even motion of the boat. At last, the storm had passed. During the day they had passed the coast of Ebbing with a stiff breeze in their back, making halt in Neweugen, at the mouth of the Im’Lebar, to exchange silver from Kovir against wine and salt, which had been shipped down the river from the Gemmerian’s mines.  He had shared a bottle with Corinne, before they spent another evening practicing. When he had told her about the first dream, she had volunteered to dream it together to discuss interpretation. Now she was awake in a chair by his bedside, reading in the light of a candle.

“We have dreamed together”, she pointed out. He nodded. “You are talented”, her voice was full of pride. Geralt shrugged sheepishly, saying nothing.

“Is it the same dream?” she wondered, and he shook his head.

“Not quite, but it was similar. I’m looking through Ciri’s eyes. The last one stopped just after the seeds burst into flame.”

They had discussed the significance of the symbol. Aen Ithlinnespeath, the prophecy of Ithlinne, spoke of it. Corinne had recited the words for him: “ _I tell you that the time of the sword and axe approaches, the time of the Wolf's Blizzard. The Time of the White Frost and White Light, the Time of Madness and Disdain, Tedd Deireadh, the Final Age. The world will perish amidst ice and be reborn with the new sun. Reborn of the Elder Blood, of Hen Ichaer, of a planted seed. A seed that will not sprout but burst into flames!_ ”

“This time”, he considered how to put it, “the dream went further. The flame grew, and in it there was something – something big and bright, a white light. Then I saw the necrophages tearing the Emperor apart, and then just madness and fighting everywhere, the swallow finds the cormorant. Then the dream shifts, and there are two doors.” He turned to her, and she nodded in assent.

“What do you think it meant?” she inquired, and he frowned.

“A decision, or a point of divergence,” he offered.

Corinne nodded thoughtfully: “What is behind the doors?”

“I did not see, they are locked”, he answered, and she looked at him admonishingly.

“Which door do you pass?” she went on, relentlessly.

“I go through the floor?” he joked. He did not know. The dream had changed suddenly, ending up in a dungeon maze, all paths leading into locked doors, walled up tunnels, collapsed rubble. The last dead end he ran towards was a sky cell, like the one he had found on Skellige, showing him the panorama of the burning capital. The only item in the cell was a huge standing mirror with a fracture down the middle. Inside the glass, a man Geralt wished he’d never met, smiling wickedly, held up three fingers, mouthing a countdown as he folded the fingers in: three, two, and one!

“Geralt!” Corinne raised her voice to gain his attention.

“Sorry”, he offered, “what were you saying?”

She sighed: “I said that it is essential to find Sara as quickly as possible. This must be your- it must be our priority once we find the Emperor.”

“Of course”, the witcher frowned, “Did you have a vision?”

“Just promise me”, Corinne insisted.

“Fine”, he sighed, “I promise.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> var Moehoen is the highest commander of the Nilfgaardian army, apart from the Emperor. In the Witcher 3 game he appears once, visiting the Bloody Baron. Other military names are taken from the wiki, all of them fought in previous battles and survived, which made them possible candidates to replace the commanders who died at Brenna.
> 
> “traitor’s son” – this refers to the rebellion against Emhyr that considered Morvran as a suitable king. While Prince Voorhis, Morvran’s father, was not necessarily involved (canon), I draw on this idea here that some political fractions consider the whole Voorhis family as traitorous and too merchant-friendly.
> 
> Jan Strycker is a Nilfgaardian spy from the books
> 
> Middle Welsh: Moruran "cormorant", also in the saga of Morfran


	10. Realisations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, thanks to all for reading this. I hope you enjoy!! This is the last chapter of the second act; the third is coming up soon - and (!!!) I'm excited to share that I am working on a sequel. Leave kudos/comments about what you liked; stuff you want more on. I'm open for extra inspiration.

_Ard Skellig, 20 th Velen 1285 in the reign of Queen Cerys_

 

Kaer Trolde lay as strong and still as the last time Ciri had been there, shortly before Geralt and she had gone to fight the cockatrice. It was less than a month, yet it seemed like ages had passed and worlds turned. Becca, the woman Emhyr had married to become the rightful King of Cintra, had been awake for three days. Her injuries were healing with the good treatment of the druids, but Ciri was less sure about the state of mind of the former Empress. Ciri herself had slept far from well after listening to Becca’s stories. It roused memories of meeting her father she would rather leave behind her, like that time in Vizima when he had asked her to become Empress and marry the ugly general. Not least because of those troubling thoughts, she had left Becca in the care of Mousesack. The druid would know what to do, without being easily swayed or revealing Becca’s whereabouts to anyone.

Ciri found it difficult to look at the woman, who looked so much like her, had carried the same name, and yet was a complete stranger. Grateful to be freed from the clutches of the crone, Becca – as she preferred to call herself now – had willingly told Ciri whatever she wanted to know. Her voice was even and detached when she recounted her life. And Ciri had asked her about everything, even the things she was not sure she wanted to know, but felt she needed to know. They had sat on the rock above the whale graveyard, talking for long hours, until Becca had grown tired. Ciri, unsure what to do with herself, and taken a walk in the woods, and then teleported herself to the keep in order to find Cerys. The queen’s advice would be welcome.

Becca’s words echoed in Ciri’s ears, as she climbed the long road up to the keep to have some time to think. Keira Metz, upon hearing Becca’s story at the inn in Vizima, had taken her to Fringilla Vigo, who had stolen the Empress’ memories all those years ago, as well as the vial with hairs in her pocket. To make good the deed done to her, Becca had convinced the sorceress to help her get revenge on Emhyr. Fringilla had agreed easily to the opportunity. Despite the fact that Emhyr himself had benefitted from Demawend’s death and commissioned further regicides himself, he had charged Fringilla with high treason, keeping her on a short leash through a geas, using her powers to his benefit. Together, the two had sought to curse Emhyr, but then Keira had tattled on them to the Lodge.

“Then Philippa Eilhart and Francesca Findabair got involved”, Becca had said on the ledge above the whale graveyard, legs folded gracefully and voice mild like a proper princess, “and they had their own agendas. They did not see fit to involve me in their meetings at Queen Adda’s court, but I could but some of the picture together. Non-humans and mages were being hunted in Aedirn, and Queen Adda tasked Philippa to use the instability to expand the Redanian influence on the northern nobles in the Pontar valley. That is when we relocated to Dol Blathanna. Queen Enid an Gleanna, as we learned upon our arrival, had called upon the Emperor to request his intervention in Aedirn, but he did not assist her. The situation escalated when the taxes had to be paid and people went hungry, and then General Voorhis, Commander Roche, and the Knights of the Flame Rose started bringing down the peasant riots. Apparently, most of the victims were elves. That is when the elven queen called in the sorceresses of the Lodge.” Becca’s face was kind and fair, looking at the sea, until she turned her head to make the mangled skin on the other half of her face visible. Her eyes were hard. “You know, Ciri, Emhyr is afraid of sorcery, ever since he was cursed as a child. He always carries dimeritium on his person. It is even woven into the fabrics he wears, even the ink he uses is green.” She chuckled coldly.

Ciri felt torn between empathy and disgust for the woman who was behind the curse on her father. She had struggled with herself to ask what Emhyr had done to Becca do make her hate him so much, when something the former empress said made her blood run cold.

Becca recounted that one of the sorceresses had gone to Novigrad to seek out a dream seer to discuss possible interpretations of Ithlinne’s prophecy. Becca had not been aware of it until a few days later, when she was asked by Keira and Fringilla whether she was willing to help with something: “something that would make him pay in kind the pain caused to me, something that would make him lose his life’s work and ambitions, like I lost everything…” Becca’s eyes had shone with madness. Perhaps, she had thought, this is my chance. Seeking to hinder Emhyr from doing something that would interfere with their plans, the Lodge had discussed how to overcome the dimeritium protecting the Emperor against sorcery, when Keira Metz had proposed an idea. Having hidden herself in Velen during the witch-hunts, she had heard of beings called the crones, who were occasionally sought out by local witches. A little investigation had shown that one of the creatures had returned to the bog. Fringilla and Keira had gone to negotiate with her. Whatever pact had been made, Keira and Fringilla had taken her to Oxenfurt on the same day. From there, they had travelled in secrecy. The silence on the road had unnerved her, and when she had laid eyes on the weavess, she had wanted to run, but it was too late. The sorceresses had left, and Becca had found herself in a hell she could not have comprehended before.

“She said,” the Empress shuddered, “that any pain I would feel would make the curse stronger, that every pain I felt he would feel too. I once begged for my life, but she only laughed and said this was not the deal.”

They had sat in silence then, on the ledge where Ciri had loved to meditate. When the sun began to set Becca had said she wanted to be alone, and Ciri had left her there and teleported to Kaer Trolde. She hoped that Cerys could help her understand why the Lodge wanted Emhyr incapacitated in order to prevent Morvran Voorhis from becoming Emperor.

“Oh, damnit!” she cursed suddenly, standing right on the bridge to the keep. Emhyr had already told her why. But how, she furred her forehead, had the Lodge known? Then a terrible thought dawned on her. She hoped she was wrong, but at least she knew where to find the answers now. Concentrating, she teleported.

~*~

The ash-blonde woman sat on the ledge, her hair blowing loosely in the wind, when his shadow fell over her.

“So you have come,” she said, looking up to the tinkerer. He inclined his head, remembering a day in Cintra, 1263. The Nilfgaardian army had surrounded the city, breaking the gates and swarming upon the streets like the Black Death. Terrified of the slaughter, mothers had killed their children, husbands their wives, then themselves. He had walked upon the streets, set ablaze by fire that had broken out somewhere and engulfed a whole neighbourhood. The soldiers had left, leaving the few surviving Cintrians to their fate in flame and smoke. It had been a day to his taste, when the man of glass had heard the whimpering of a child. A little girl, sooty and red-faced, stood among the charred remains of a house, crying for her parents. Out of the spur of the moment, he had offered her a sweet. Her ash-blonde hair resembled the lion cub the Emperor was searching for so desperately. It was not a thing he could meddle with, but curiosity overcame him for just a moment. He gained the little girls tentative trust when he told her she so resembled the princess. To his disappointment, the child turned out to be the daughter of a family from Skellige. Desperately, she had asked him to bring her to her family, who surely would wait for her at the harbour. They had talked about leaving the city to return to the isles. Surely her parents were there, just waiting for her. With the gentleness of a lion pawing the mouse he is about to devour, he had offered her three wishes, as was his habit. What does a little girl wish for?

Bring me to Skellige, she had said, to my family. It was the only thing the girl would think of. When he pressed her for a second wish, she had blushed. Anything you can think of, he had gently patted her head. Make me a princess, she had asked, red to the tip of her ears. I’d love to be like the Princess Cirilla, if only for a short while! The man of glass had looked at her, a glitter of amusement in his eyes: “Shall we proceed then, my dear Princess Cirilla?” he had asked her, picking up the dirty girl, to carry her away from the burning city. It could not be too hard to find somebody desperate to present a war orphan as the Princess of Cintra. It was only when he left her at the refugee camp that she whispered the third wish into his ear: “Make him pay”, the little girl had said, “the bad man who burned the city.”

It had taken patience, but he had fulfilled her wishes. It was time to claim her soul. With a sudden movement, he dragged the woman up from her sitting position. She fought his grip, leaning away from him. He forced her close to him, holding her in the mockery of an embrace.

“We have a deal, my dear, I know you remember it now,” he whispered into her ear, standing behind her, giddy with excitement, with hunger.

“But you lost”, she snorted, “You cannot fulfil it. Even if I set foot on Skellige, my family is dead.” Then suddenly, all colour left her face and her eyes went wide. “No… Cirilla-” she breathed.

“-var Emreis. A shared surname. Family, by marriage, never annulled,” he smiled, pushing her forward towards the end of the ledge. He sucked the soul out of her struggling body, salivating over her pain and rage. Then, with a last caress to her shoulder, he dropped the corpse over the cliff. Watching it fall, he winced emphatically when her body hit a tree in the mountain side with a sickening crunch as her spine broke. Well, he thought, she would not have felt it. She was already gone.

Time to return his attention to another venture.

 

 

 

tbc


End file.
